Abhorrent Accordance
by Tovorach
Summary: When a political meeting takes a turn for worst, Sherlock and John meet an unusually-bright client, who claims to be the personification of Northern Italy. With few personas already dead and the rest turned against one another, the first of human and persona partnerships officially begins...but even then, how long is it to last? Pairings galore, T for Blood, Deaths, and Language.
1. Zero: Turnabout

**Author Note: **Always wanted to give HetaLock a try, especially one that didn't involve too much England/Britain. So I've devised a very rusty plot so far and I'm going to give this one the go. I'd appreciate any feedback in any shape or form, and this will be updated whenever I have the time. Might revamp the chapters in the future though...just typing what comes to mind right now.

I do not own anything but the idea. Sherlock belongs to BBC and Hetalia to Hidekaz Himaruya. (I think that's how you spell it.)

**Chapter Warning: **Contains implied gore/blood and character deaths. Also includes colorful language. (I use American English, sorry.)

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><p><strong><span>Prologue – Turnabout<span>**

"I apologize for the abrupt increase in security, everyone." The personification of Britain says as the other nations swarm into the room, none looking too happy with the circumstances. "It's just for safety reasons."

"Or perhaps your age is finally catching up to you," Sneers the personification of France. "You are quite old, Angleterre."

"And you're as pompous as ever, frog."

Some personas roll their eyes at the usual, while the few guards in the room pass each other disapproving glances. To think that _this _was how their nations were represented…it's no wonder the rest of mankind associates the races with typical stereotypes.

"Might I ask as to why you've increased your security, Britain?" Hums the personification of Russia. "I'm not very happy with humans telling me what I can and cannot do." As he speaks, a chilling aura surrounds him, unsettling those that dared to sit nearby.

Britain scratches the back of his head. "Well, I received an anonymous threat a few days ago, so—"

"No worries, bro!" Laughs his ex-colony, America. "The hero's totally got your back!"

"What kind of threat?" The personification of Germany asks curiously, trying to distract himself from the bubbly northern Italian that was currently chewing his ears out with his daily rambles.

"A declaration of war, actually."

And suddenly, the room becomes silent. The nations glance nervously at one another, and the guards straighten their postures, preparing themselves in case of a provocation outbreak. From what they've heard in the dark, personas are easily agitated, and they're quite hard to kill by human means.

Being outnumbered by these inhuman freaks didn't exactly soothe their tense thoughts either.

"…In what way did you receive this threat, Mr. Britain?" Politely asks the personification of Japan. "Perhaps your men could track down its source?"

"I've already done that." The Brit admits. "I first received it personally in a letter with no return address, and at the time, I hadn't given it too much thought. But then the Prime Minister calls and says he's received the same thing through a private call. Then my government officials are being sent threats as well, and when we traced each one of them individually, we've gotten different sources."

"How so?"

Britain suddenly becomes uneasy as he speaks. "…The phone call was traced back to Newfoundland, Canada…"

"I knew it!" America shouts, abruptly standing up and slamming his hands on the table. "My brother's plotting to take us all down! Oh, that sneaky little—"

"America, sit down and let him finish!" Snaps Germany.

The man slumps back into his seat, arms crossed and mighty unhappy. Somewhere in the background, one could faintly here a whisper of protest. _"I would never do that!"_

"Next, we found that one email traced back to Poltava, Ukraine—"

"My crybaby sister is innocent." Russia says with a dark smile. "She would do no such thing unless I asked her to do so. Which I did not, mind you."

"—and another happened to lead to Calabria, Southern Italy—"

"What?!" Northern Italy gasps, eyes wide open. "My fratello wouldn't do something like that! Well, not without me of course, because we're both Italy and I would have been told by big brother Spain, but he's innocent too!" He clings to Germany's arm, who fruitlessly tries to swat him off.

"—But then comes the strange part." Britain says, unfazed by the constant interruptions. "The rest of the emails either traced back to different parts of my own country, or some just couldn't be traced at all. Unless there's a sort of secret revolution going on, I doubt the nation will start a war within itself…" He thinks thoughtfully for a minute.

"Well, you could always check that letter for fingerprints." The personification of China says flatly, doodling imaginary doodles with his finger on the table. "Or you can let me have a go at tracing!" He happily suggests.

"No way!" America immediately yells.

The two begin to bicker, with England attempting to break the two up and end up being pulled into the mix. The rest of the nations either watch or busy themselves with something for the moment, not wanting to be involved.

No one noticed one of the guards drop something behind his back, the little round object softly clattering onto the floor beside his feet. Carefully, he shifts his hand over to his belt, where his transceiver was, and switched it on.

The guard beside him watched calmly, nodding when the gaze was returned.

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><p>"Bait's ready."<p>

A group of _"guards" _huddled around to hear the transceiver crackle with the arguments of the personifications in the meeting room, the only voice recognizable being Britain's. Despite being a floor below them, they could hear a muffled commotion going on somewhere within the building.

"Right, everyone's got full ammo then?" The only unarmed _"guard" _asks, the rest nodding as they switched the safety off their rifles. "We only need to kill one, but don't hesitate to fill the rest with lead." He orders as he pulls out a cell-phone.

Flicking it on, an app icon in the shape of a bomb appears, and with a short nod, he taps it. The screen goes white, and the song _'B.Y.O.B.' _by System of a Down begins to flow from the tiny device's speakers at an alarming volume.

The armed _"guards" _immediately run for the ascending stairs, with him screaming, "Go! Go! Go!"

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><p>Just when the nations were finally settling down, the little round object on the floor suddenly burst into a plume of foul-smelling gas, flooding the room within seconds. The few guards that were unfortunate to be in the room coughed violently, clutching their throats as they collapsed onto the floor in agony.<p>

Only two of the nations present reacted quickly enough. Germany immediately covered Italy's mouth and pulled him close, hoping to shield the Italian with his body, while America bolted from his seat, grabbed England by his tie, and pulled him down onto the ground, covering his own mouth with the collar of his shirt.

Inhaling the gas, the nations felt as though they were swallowing pins and needles, coughing and clawing as their nerves suddenly jolted with pain. The door was then kicked down by the _"guards"_, to which they were slightly relieved for a moment before they held their weapons up and let loose a storm of bullets.

Italy couldn't see a thing anymore once Germany pulled him closer, holding his head against his chest as the screams of the nations filled the room. He heard something fall onto the ground with a muffled _thump, _heard something crash through the window, and then heard another sickening _thump_.

Suddenly, he and Germany fell to the floor, the latter nearly crushing his smaller frame. When the Italian opened his mouth to whine, the blonde hushed him and gave him a familiar look.

Upon realization, Italy nodded and closed his eyes, Germany doing the same. They were vaguely aware of something warm drenching their sides as they slowed their breathing down…to the point where they weren't breathing at all.

The gas cleared, and the outcome of the chaos was in clear view; the guards had either finally settled down or ran out of bullets, as their rifles now lay discarded on the blood-splattered ground. France lay unmoving near the wall, body contorted at strange angles, and Japan was slumped on his chair, blood coating his chest.

Canada, America, and Britain were piled against one another, the two northern American brothers unconscious and the Brit wounded severely. China and Russia were nowhere to be seen, and with one of the windows being broken, there was no doubt they jumped out to escape.

Italy and Germany were still conscious to feeling and sound, but other than that, they might as well be dead. They heard murmurs amongst the _"guards" _and a trail of footsteps, which grew louder as someone walked around, kicking at the nation's bodies.

The two tried not to let a look of discomfort appear on their faces when Germany was kicked off of Italy, hoping these traitorous humans would buy their act. When nothing happened, they felt slightly relieved.

"Shit, we killed 4 of them." Someone grumbled.

"Bah, who the fuck cares." Another huffed. "…Those two must have died from gas inhalation. Toss them out that window and make it look like a suicide or accident or something."

"Right."

Italy felt a pair of arms lift him up and drag him over to the other side of the room, and he tried hard, _so hard _not to let his fear show. He'd survived the fall, he'd be okay, but he still didn't like the feeling of falling. He bit back the sharp pain of the glass slicing his back as he was carelessly pushed out of the window.

He fell.

_Thump._

...He thanked God for landing on his side, even if his shoulder might have dislocated from the impact. The persona listened carefully for the second person to be tossed out, half-praying it was Germany so the two would escape together.

_Thump._

He cracked an eye open.

The lifeless gaze of _Canada_ stared back at him.

Italy cried.


	2. One: Communication

**Author Note:** I finally got this thing out of the way. It's late, it's short, and it sucks; I know. I plan on rewriting everything once I get the basics laid out and whatnot. Don't expect me to update any more frequently; my patience is thin with this one.

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor do I own Hetalia.

**Chapter Warnings: **None, aside from a confusing plot.

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><p><span><strong>One - Communication<strong>

It happened to be one of those rare mornings in flat 221B, where John was struggling to stay awake and make tea for two as Sherlock was perched atop his armchair, eyes trained on their battered television set as it spewed out the nonsense that was the morning news.

'_Top-tier constables are still investigating the scene of a possible massacre that had taken place last week within the Houses of Parliament.' _The newswoman stated flatly, sounding unappealing as ever. _'Only two of what may have been a full party have been found dead, though their identities remain unknown.'_

John chose that moment to enter the room, passing a cup of freshly-brewed tea to Sherlock as he sat in the armchair across from him, sipping at his own tasty beverage.

"Hear anything interesting?" He asked.

"Hardly." Scoffed the detective, as expected.

"And here I thought you'd be interested in this case." John huffed teasingly. "But then again, I guess it's natural you'd turn away from anything relating to Parliament. That's your brother's job, isn't it?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but said nothing else as he continued to stare at the flickering television screen. John wondered if he was just watching the news like a normal person or trying to take it apart with his own two eyes. It had to be the latter.

'_On another note, strange messages have started to appear throughout London.' _The screen then began to show different pictures taken by bystanders and officers alike. _'Each of them seem to be written in some form of code and have been left in several public places. One was written on a local bakery's window and another was written on the asphalt.'_

**The sky's fallen, **read one of the messages, **hurry to haven.**

**I'm Cloud-9, **said another, **SOS.**

**The sandman's dead.**

**I need the stars.**

**Meet me at the horizon, ASAP.**

"Peculiar…" Breathed Sherlock as the images continued to cycle on the screen. "Codes of different words but of same meaning…"

"Maybe they're tied together and just need to be read in the right order." John hummed.

"Unlikely."

"Well then…"

The two continued to listen to the flatly-spoken news, interests barely piqued. At least their kitchen was intact for once…and a certain experiment hadn't started to rot like usual. Quite the rare morning this was…

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><p>"<em>How fast is this idiot?!"<em>

Two black vehicles sped down the road in a futile attempt to catch up with a certain-fleeing persona, who was yelling out complete gibberish as he somehow managed to maneuver his way around the flocks of London folk. Those driving the cars, however, weren't as quick and had to sloppily swerve their way around the ongoing traffic and avoid hitting any pedestrians at the same time.

"Don't you dare lose him now!" Snarled a voice in the back of one of the vehicles.

"We're trying, sir!"

The persona then made a sharp-turn to the left, entering what was to be an abandoned parking lot. The vehicles followed suit, turning and speeding down the slope before screeching to a halt within the lot.

"Oh, don't tell me…"

The parking lot, barred by three fences, was completely empty.

And yet, the echoing of the persona's incoherent gibberish seemed to mock them endlessly…

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><p>'<em>Phew…that was a close one.' <em>Feliciano Vargas thought as he clumsily stumbled down the street, looking as though he were ready to faint out of exhaustion at any given moment. _'Britain's officials sure are persistent!'_

A sharp cold breeze cut through him, and the Italian shivered. He didn't like London; he didn't like _any _place that didn't have a nice, warm and sunny weather. He hated the cold. It felt so…_bitter, _in a sense.

Feliciano moved aside and bent over a bit, trying to catch his breath. How long had he been running? Minutes? Hours? Hell, he could've run for days! How he managed to escape would forever be a mystery to him.

He glanced around, unsure of where to go and what to do next, when suddenly he spotted something in the distance. The Italian cocked his head, watching from afar as an angry employee was furiously scrubbing at the graffiti that had been left on their shop's window.

_**My savior is Holmes.  
>Bring him to horizon.<strong>_

Feliciano stared as the words were washed off, the message imprinted in his mind. _Horizon; _the place where everything meets but cannot be reached, the persona's true position in the real world. But he knew not who this _'Holmes' _person was; a human, most likely.

But to go as far as to pull a human into the persona world?

That would be breaking several codes of conduct that UN had fought so desperately to ensure. The humans could not, _would not _be able to comprehend their existence in a civilized manner; chaos would likely follow if they were publicized.

And yet, one of the surviving personas seems to rely on this human.

_A human named Holmes._

Feliciano did not know if any of the others had seen this message yet, but duty calls, and he knew they had no other choice but to follow each other's plans.

Their nations were at stake.


End file.
